


Lengthy Shadows of the Past: Nara Cadash's Drabbles

by Zendelai



Series: Dragon Age One-Shots, Drabbles, and etc. [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A bit of smut too, Drabbles, F/M, Female Dwarf Archer, Female Dwarf Inquisitor - Freeform, First Kiss, Mostly Fluff, pinning against a wall, prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-04-02 21:51:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4075087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zendelai/pseuds/Zendelai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles in no particular order involving my Female Dwarf Archer Inquisitor, Nara Cadash, and her love, Blackwall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Cave of Insecurity

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the prompt on tumblr: "Nara feeling insecure about her appearance after a session with Josephine and Leliana and Vivienne and a dressmaker who are frankly (and perhaps a little insensitively) discussing how they can possibly make their dwarven inquisitor appear stately and imposing. Blackwall realizing something is wrong and making it all better."

Blackwall’s heart was high in his throat, choking him, making him dizzy. **  
**

Yet where in the Void was his head right now, for him to be doing something so foolish? He must have left it back in the Hinterlands before he joined the Inquisition, and before he met Nara Cadash.

He paused for a moment and ran his hand through his hair, immediately regretting it when he realized that he was mussing it up. He paused in front of a looking glass to smooth it back, and he heard two bloody Orlesian nobles giggle from behind him when he did.

There were far too many nobles in Skyhold at the present for his liking.

He approached the room on the main floor that had been designated as the Inquisitor’s office, but before he could knock, he heard voices emitting from within.

“Zis is ‘opeless!” It was a heavily-accented Orleasian noble, and that single sentence encapsulated her snobbery. “'Ow can I make art with such useless tools?”

Vivienne countered the noble. “Our Inquisitor must look presentable for the Winter Palace.”

The noble snorted. “'Ow can I make a dwarf presentable, nevermind attractive?” The disgust in the way she said 'dwarf’ sent anger flowing through Blackwall like hot lava. How  _dare_ she speak of the Inquisitor that way?

“I have fucking ears, you know,” snarled Nara, and he couldn’t help but smile at her retort. He should have known she would never let these Maker-damned nobles walk all over her.

The noble snorted again, the noise even more pronounced this time round. “I am aware, you cannot miss ears zat size.”

“If you cannot make a dress suitable for our Inquisitor, we will find a dressmaker who can.”  _Bless you, Josephine._

“Dress 'er in one of those 'ideous suits of yours. No dress will make 'er presentable in Orlesian court. It is like putting a dress on a  _cochon_.” Blackwall cringed – he knew enough Orleasian to know what a bloody  _cochon_ was. He was about to throw the door open to give that horrid noblewoman a piece of his mind when he heard Nara say, “Fine, I’ll wear the fucking suit, I don’t give a shit what the nobles think.” There was the sound of a thud – he figured she had jumped down from the pedestal where she was being fitted – and he heard loud footsteps before the door swung open and Nara flew out in a flurry, entirely ignoring him, tatters of her dress-in-progress flowing behind her like ribbons.

He could have sworn he heard her sniffle down tears before she entered her quarters and slammed the door behind her.

–-

“Inquisitor, wake up.”

And why in the Void should she do that? Judging by the inky blackness she could see through the netting in her tent, it was either very late or very early. She didn’t particularly care in that moment that it was Blackwall who was trying to wake her; she wanted nothing more than to roll over and return to her dreamless sleep.

“Inquisitor?”

So he was being persistent, he seemed good at that. She pulled her blanket up higher over her head and let out a groan; she had neither the time nor the energy for this.

She heard the high-pitched squeal of her tent being unzipped, and she let out a groan in earnest. “Nara, please,” Blackwall asked, “I have something I want to show you.”

“Is it a bed?” she groggily asked. He let out a low chuckle that warmed her to her core and responded, “No, it’s much better. Come on.”

She truly didn’t know why she did it, but she acquiesced. She was normally as stubborn as a bronto, but Blackwall seemed to always find a way to break through that facade. “Fine. But get out of here, I need to get into something warmer than my smalls.”

The zipping sound resonated through her tent, and when she sat up, she could see the faint outline of his shadow through the tent wall, but he was looking in the other direction.

A gentleman, through and through. She shook her head and sighed. A man like Blackwall would never show interest in a woman like her. He was a Warden, brave, strong, and selfless, while she was nothing but an ugly, Casteless dwarf criminal.

She kept trying to tell herself that bloody noblewoman’s words didn’t hurt her, but Maker, how they did. She was nothing but an ugly dwarf, with a nose thrice broken, teeth too crooked, ears too large, and a Casteless brand to bring it all together. Oh, how they would be delighted to make fun of her at that bloody ball.

She dressed quickly and, grabbing her bow and quiver, exited the tent, the brisk night air tickling her cheeks. When her gaze drifted up she could see a clear night sky, dotted with endless stars and a full moon; they wouldn’t even need a torch, wherever the fuck they were going.

Blackwall took her attention away from the skies and, to her great surprise and pleasure, grasped her hand. “This way.”

Quietly he lead her through the forests of the Hinterlands, dominated by pines and ferns; she kept her head tucked low to keep the branches from scraping her bare cheeks. They remained quiet through their trek, their gazes fixed on the forest floor to ensure neither of them tripped over fallen branches or stumps; regardless of how sure-footed they both could be, neither of them needed a broken ankle. His fingers laced between hers were a comforting presence, sending a tingling sensation up her arm, and every time she thought of the rough workman’s callouses along his hot palms she flushed.

When the trees began to thin, allowing more of the milky moonlight to cast between them, Blackwall broke the concentrated silence. “Most of the time when I was recruiting here, taverns were willing to give a Warden a free night’s rest, no charge. But I wasn’t always lucky enough to be near civilization.”

“We’ve slept in tents more than a few times.”

He turned to catch her gaze and she watched the corner of his beard bristle into a smile. “And when it rains?”

She crinkled her nose, recalling more than a few nights spent shivering and soaked to the bone. “It’s fucking miserable.”

Blackwall released her hand – she immediately missed its affirming presence – to pull apart two young ferns, revealing a small mouth to a cave. She stopped in her tracks, shooting him a peculiar look. “Are you suggesting we go in there?”

“Yes.” He seemed entirely nonplussed by the idea.

“Are you mad? Do you know what the chances are of having a bear in there?”

At this he chuckled again, and it was maddening. “You think I’d bring you here without checking for bears first?”

“I…” Her mouth opened and closed as she searched for an appropriate response, but her mouth snapped shut and her brow furrowed when she could find none. “ _Fine_ , take me in your cave.”

He chuckled again – what in the Void was he finding so amusing about this? – and grasped her hand to lead her in. It was so dark within that she could only faintly see his silhouette before her, all broad shoulders and strong legs. With his free hand he felt along the wall until he paused with an “ah” and crouched low through an opening she couldn’t see. They crawled on their hands and knees (she felt very dignified) until she could see him standing before her, and when she stood, her heart plunged into her stomach and she was stunned silent.

They had entered a vast alcove opened to the skies, allowing the moonlight in to twinkle off an open pool. The only access, however, must have been through the cave, for it was encapsulated in stone walls throughout. Stalagmites rose like statues protecting the pond, but there was a stone path leading to it from the entrance.

“Ancestors,” she whispered, her gaze dancing around the room.

“I found this one night when there was a thunderstorm so strong that I thought the skies were falling, and I thought you may like to see it.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “You’re making a sky falling comment to a surface dwarf?”

He chuckled before slipping off his heavy boots and approaching the water. She did the same and they both slipped their toes in; it was far too cold to swim in, but it felt refreshing on weary feet.

Watching the moonlight dance across the waves created by their steps, she whispered reverently, “This place is beautiful.”

His tone heavy, he responded, “Not nearly as beautiful as you.”

She nearly choked in surprise, but managed to turn it into a derisive snort. “You’re kind, but a liar.” His hand tensed up at her comment, and she immediately regretted it.

“I’m serious.” There was such strong truth to his tone that she searched out his eyes; the moonlight had brought out the amber tones in his irises, and both the corners of his lips and his brows were turned down in concern.

She was touched.

“I heard what that  _fucking_ Orlesian woman said.” The vitriol made his voice heavy, and she had to draw her hand back to resist touching his cheek. “Our belief in what’s beautiful and what’s not is…” He shook his head slowly, “Very different.”

“But you know that she’s right, she–”

All words ceased when Blackwall leaned down, eyes closed, and pressed his lips to hers.

She couldn’t help it: her brows shot straight up and her palms spread before she realized this was  _real_ , this was  _happening_ , and she closed her eyes and melted into the kiss.

But, Andraste, his lips felt  _incredible_. Soft but a little dry, his beard tickling the fine skin below her lips. His hands were even more of a pleasant surprise; broad and steady, he reached for her hips and grasped them without hesitation, his lips pushing even harder into hers and she grew pliant beneath the pressure. She grasped his waist and pulled him in as close as she could, and he bent at the knees to accomodate her, sighing as her breasts pressed against his chest, his hands shooting up her back to plunge into her hair, making her head feel light and airy.

When after too short of a time they parted, she gasped his name as he pressed a tender kiss to the tip of her nose.

His gaze met hers, and although she felt like giggling he appeared stern. “You _are_ beautiful,” he repeated, before pressing another quick kiss to her lips.

And this time, she believed him.


	2. Bloody Assassins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt on tumblr: “Does that feel better?”

“Maker, that bloody hurts!”

Nara spun at the sound of Blackwall’s voice, spotting him doubled over beneath a dead pine tree, clutching at his hip. Her brow furrowed in concern she marched over to him, barely having to bend down to become level with his gaze.

“You were hit, Blackwall?” she asked.

“Assassins,” he grumbled in a low voice. He pulled his hand away from his hip, and it was coated with a fine layer of blood; not enough to be lethal, but enough to be concerned about.

With as gentle of a touch as she could, she pulled away his layers of clothing to expose his hip, revealing a veritable stab wound and a faint trickle of blood that was easing its way down his leg.

Bloody assassins. Bloody Western Approach.

“Sit,” she commanded, and he quickly obliged. Wiping her bloodied hands on the dead pine needles coating the ground, she reached into her pack to pull out spare elfroot, cloth, and cotton, as well as her waterskin. Between her teeth she ground up the elfroot into a fine paste.

“This might sting a bit.” She splashed water on the wound to clean it and bathe away the excess blood. She pressed the elfroot to it, and she heard him suck a breath in between his teeth. It burned, she knew, but it would keep an infection away.

While she pressed the cotton to the wound and began to wrap the cloth around his waist to hold it in place, Blackwall commented, “You seem to know your way around this pretty well.”

She shrugged noncommittally. “Things in the Carta can get messy, you need to learn how to patch up basic wounds in the field.” She pulled away to admire her handiwork, cleaning her hands with the rest of the water in the skin. “We’ll have to get you back to camp to get it cleaned up properly, but this will get you there in one piece.”

“Can you…” He cleared his throat and began to flush. His eyes darted to their other companions, but they were out scouting ahead. She didn’t know it was possible, but he somehow flushed an even deeper shade of red above his beard. “Kiss it better?” he whispered.

She laughed, deep in her throat, before leaning down and pressing her lips above the cotton. Cocking a brow at him, she asked, “Does that feel better?”

Slowly he nodded, a wry smile lighting up his features. “Much.”


	3. Redemption

The air was bitter, so cold it burned her exposed flesh, leaving it raw and pink from the wind’s bite. It reached past her flesh and sinew to reach her bones, and she shivered until her vision blurred, wrapping her protective furs tighter around her shoulders.

Finally reaching the promise of warmth the walls of Haven afforded, she immediately ducked into the tavern, hoping a fire would warm her from without and an ale from within.

 "Maker’s Balls,“ she growled to no one in particular. Shaking herself like a wet dog, she sent droplets of water flying from her furs around her in a circle, immediately searching out the crackling fire to warm her numb hands. 

"Good trip?” It was Blackwall; he looked warm and cozy indeed, huddled up in a chaise before the hearth. 

“I swear–” she plopped into a plush chaise beside him, throwing her feet before her so they were as close to the fire as possible, “–not even the bloody Deep Roads get this cold.” She groaned and, closing her tired eyes, tossed her head back. The warmth felt sublime on her hands and feet as they began to defrost, prickling back to life.

“There are some very cold parts of the Deep Roads,” he countered. She affixed him with a one-eyed gaze that was both weary and unimpressed; to regain her favour, he offered, “An ale to warm your belly, my lady?”

She closed the eye again. “Please. But Maker, please, stop calling me my lady. I’m not a bloody Noble.”

He stood, dipping his chin in resignation. “As you wish.”

In his absence, the prickling in her hands and feet grew uncomfortable; she pulled them away from the fire and began to strip away her damp, heavy layers until she was down to just her armour. She heard a clank and slosh as Blackwall placed a pint of ale beside her; it was dark, her preferred choice. She threw it down her gullet with desire bordering on necessity, inciting a jaw dropping from Blackwall when she smacked the half-empty tankard on the table.

“What?” she grumbled, licking the froth from her upper lip. “I may be a lady, but I’m still a dwarf.”

He chuckled, a throaty, pleasant sound. “That you are.”

She fixed him with a probing gaze as his eyes danced with the flickers of the fire. Without preamble, she asked him, “Would I have been a good Grey Warden?”

His wide eyes flew up from the fire, and his brows lifted higher than she had ever seen them. Never before had a question from her prompted such a surprised response from him. “I believe so,” he muttered quietly. “You’re brave, and true, and that’s what matters most. Your skill with a bow helps, as well.” His eyes met hers, and behind the surprise, she found sorrow. “I can see why the idea would have enticed you. The Wardens is a good place to leave a past behind that wants to be forgotten and start anew.” The last words he whispered, to the fire instead of her.

Uncertainty crept into her tone. “Does the Joining… help? With the… the memories?”

His eyes darkened, frightfully so. “No,” he snapped coldly. “No it doesn’t.” She wished both to touch his arm to comfort him, and to recoil from the pain so evident in his features. Blackwall had never been an open book to her, per se, but she had always understood his desire to run from his past. Seeing him now made her wonder if there was even more to it that went beyond the comprehension developed from her own experiences. 

In spite of their short time together, they had forged a partnership in battle. He read her wordless cues, following her arrows when they sought a new target, distracting her enemies when she slipped into the shadows. Their partnership was more effective than any she had developed with fellow Carta members. 

Yet in that moment, he was as much of a stranger to her as one of the many bandits she felled earlier that day.

But regardless of his past, Blackwall was a good man  _now_ , and that was the only matter of import to her. 

The Inquisition would be their redemption.

“Thank the Maker for ale, then,” she said with a wry smile, holding up her tankard for him.

 _And thank the Maker for you, Nara Cadash_ , he thought to himself, pressing his tankard to hers before momentarily masking his sorrows in its depths.


	4. Black Flies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the tumblr prompt: "Head Scratches"

The Hissing Wastes smelled fucking  _rancid_.

It didn’t help that it was unbearably hot, and that there were so many hungry insects that any exposed skin was quickly covered in angry, red welts.

The worst were the bloody black flies, as large as walnuts and as voracious as snakes, chasing her in each direction and taking particular pleasure in feasting on her scalp.

It was why she was frantically scratching her scalp now, until her fingertips came back bloody.

“Itching makes it worse,” Vivienne chastised.

Nara stopped in her tracks and let out a languid sigh when she reached the worst of the welts, scratching it until it bled openly. “Unfortunately for me, I have no self control.”

“My lady?” Blackwall’s voice was soft, tentative; the trust between them was still fragile, and he reverted to walking on eggshells around her all over again. Her fingers still deep in her hair she turned to him, one brow raised in question. “Perhaps I can help?”

She felt heat rising in her cheeks, but she shrugged in an attempt to remain nonchalant. Even after everything that had happened, she remembered with perfect clarity the feel of his strong hands on her hips, the feel of his lips crashing into hers, the feel of him filling–

“You can try.” The wavering in her voice gave away any attempts at lightness.

His steps were light and his expression blank as he approached her, pausing to meet her eyes and receive permission from them before he removed his gloves, tucking them in his belt. He replaced her fingertips with his own and, moving in slow circles, used the calloused pads of his fingertips to reach the itchiest spots on her head.

She couldn’t help herself; the flush in her cheeks deepened to crimson at his gentle touch, able to both make her dizzy and aid her in forgetting the horrible itching and burning from the bugs she cursed, over and over. Outside of her will her eyes flitted closed in pleasure, a long sigh escaping her lips.

“Better?” There was a gruffness, a heat, in his voice she hadn’t heard since they had laid together, and the blood in her cheeks –

Oh, Ancestors, she was in trouble. Through trembling lips she managed to mutter, “Yes,” before she spun to turn herself away from the temptation of that man.

For the moment, at least.


	5. Uncommon Aggression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt on tumblr "Uncommon Aggression".

Blackwall sighed in contentment. There were few places he’d prefer to be than here, now, with his lady’s head resting on his bare chest, her head rising and falling with his breaths while he traced lazy circles along her back.

By the tenseness still present in her shoulders and the shallowness of her breath, he could tell she was still awake, gazing out at the blackening evening sky.

“There’s something I’d like to know, Blackwall.”

It was his turn to grow tense. Some of her questions he could answer, and others he couldn’t. He prayed to himself that this was one of the ones he could; having to lie or divert the question would ruin this moment of peace created. So he croaked out a calm, “Yes?”

“Why do you keep insisting that I drink that horrid tea after every time we lie together? I thought you said Grey Wardens were near sterile from the taint.” There was a note of teasing in the otherwise serious question; perhaps she was hoping that lightness would bring forth honesty from him. “It tastes like a horse’s ass.”

He returned her teasing tone. “You’ve been going around tasting horse asses again?”

She turned her head to gaze up at him wryly, the corner of her lip turned upwards. “You know I can’t resist them.” That lifted corner of her lip swiftly fell. “I’m serious, though. Do I really need it?”

“I want to be cautious. If you were ever with child–”

“Then what?” She snapped. “You’re left to the awful fate of having a child with me? We’ve been together coming up on a year, Blackwall, do you see no future?”

“I do, but the Inquisition–”

“–Would keep going if, by the odd chance, I became with child.”

Blackwall let out a hearty sigh of frustration. Why was she suddenly growing so persistent on this topic? In the past she had insisted that she was not good with children and was in no rush to have them. Why was she becoming so adamant? He asked her, “Why does this bother you, Nara?”

This made her swiftly sit up. “Because I want  _your_ answer, not the Inquisition’s.”

“I’ve dedicated myself to the Inquisition, and so have you. It’s both our priorities, not a bloody  _child_.”

She stood, leaping off his bed and pulling her cloak off his chair. “Maker forbid I ask for a fraction of fucking  _honesty_ from you.”

Now he stood, his cheeks burning in anger. He knew that he was lying to her: she needed to take the tea not because of what he was, but what he wasn’t. 

But she couldn’t know.

Still.

She couldn’t.

Because if she knew, he’d lose her.

He was angry. Not with her, but with himself, yet as he watched her gaze up at him with her narrowed eyes and her pudgy hands curled into fists pressed into her hips, he found that he  _was_ angry with her. “Fine, Nara. I don’t want a fucking child with you. Not now. Are you happy?”

The fire in her eyes was swiftly extinguished, and shameful heat rose in her cheeks. She gazed away, and he knew he had hurt her. Before he could start to apologize, she sped to the door, slamming it on the way out.

_Shit._

He would make it up to her, one day. The lies. The frustration. The knowledge that he had buried his past beneath the layers and layers of Warden Constable Blackwall. But for today, he’d have to apologize as he always did and hope she forgave him.

Hope that she’d allow him one more day of happiness before he burned in hell for what he did. 


	6. My Fucking Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This drabble is a little unique from the rest: it's a response to a prompt on tumblr for "Modern Day AU: Person A's car breaks down on the road, and person B pulls over to help out. It's really quite hot outside."
> 
> Featuring Man Bun Blackwall.

Maker’s Sweaty Balls it was hot. The thermometer on her car had read 105F, and that was before the fucking piece of shit overheated.

Ok, she could probably be a  _little_  more grateful. She had driven it from Val Royeaux nearly to Skyhold with the little exclamation point warning light on. She thought that it was just for her emergency brake or her traction control or something else that she just didn’t need that badly until smoke started coming out from underneath the hood.

Oops.

She could hear Varric’s voice in her head now. “That’s what you get for driving a Volkswagen,” imaginary-Varric said. “You could drive a  _real_  car, an  _American_ car, but you went for the German car and…”

She began to tune out of imaginary-Varric, as she often did with real-life Varric. She loved him, she did, he could just talk too much for her liking sometimes.

But that didn’t resolve her current problem of being broken down on the side of the road with an overheated car, and no coolant or repair shops in sight.

Right, she forgot to mention the best part. Her cellphone was dead! Because why would she charge her cellphone? You only need them to text, right? Never for emergencies?

She smacked herself on her sweaty forehead. All this, and everyone was driving by her on their merry way to their merry destination, blasting their air conditioning, ignoring her completely because they probably assumed that, like a normal person, she had a cellphone to call a tow truck to get herself the hell off the side of the road.

So, to resolve the absolute shithole that she had found herself in, she did the only thing that seemed reasonable at the time: she stuck her thumb out and waited for a passing car to take her to the nearest shop or a payphone or, most likely, kill her with an axe.

You can imagine her surprise when an old black Challenger rolled up beside her, loudly garbling away. The driver leaned across and rolled down one of the tinted windows. He was a good-looking man, with eyes that were soft but not yielding and a full, dark beard scattered with a few greys, and equally dark hair that was pulled back into a bun. He sent her a small smile and asked, “Anything I can help you with, my lady?”

She was certain no one had ever called her ‘my lady’, but she was equally certain that she liked it, or at least she did in his rolling voice. “My fucking car overheated. Could you give me a ride into town so I can find a payphone and call for a tow?”

One of his dark brows raised in curiosity. “No cellphone?”

She scowled. “It’s dead.”

“Right. Well, I can do you one better. I’m a licensed mechanic, want me to take a look at it?”

“Alright.” She wasn’t going to complain if a handsome man took a look at her car.

He pulled the Challenger off the road, turned it off, and stepped out. His profile was broad, and he was taller than her by at least a foot; not that he was an unusually tall man, she was just an unusually short woman. He wore a black polo and black work pants, and she spotted dots of perspiration on his brow. His hands were clean, but he had a spot of grease on his cheek that she really wanted to just brush away with her thumb.

His eyes were wonderful, she thought. They had a kindness to them, yet they were also mysterious, like endless secrets were within them that she desperately wanted to know, even though she had yet to learn his name.

Wordlessly, he let himself into the Golf, popped the hood catch and lifted it, waving away the steam that was rising. Sounding displeased, he asked, “How long did you drive it like this for?”

She shrugged. “Light’s been on since Val Royeaux, I pulled over when smoke started to come out.”

She didn’t miss the sigh that escaped his lips. Once the steam cleared, he leaned into the engine bay; grabbing a rag from his belt (who carries rags just in their pockets, anyways? Right, mechanics) he untwisted the cap on top of the rad.

Straight faced, his eyes met hers. “You have no coolant in your radiator.”

Her cheeks flushed in shame. She knew nothing about cars other than where to put gas in, and she felt ashamed at her lack of knowledge. 

Sensing her shame, his tone became gentle. “Luckily for you, I’m a mechanic and I charge fairly for beautiful women.” The flush came on in full now, creeping down her neck and chest. He strode to his car, pulled out a jug of water, and poured it into her radiator; it hissed angrily in response. 

Once the hissing stopped, he said, “Here’s my card.” He whipped it out of his pocket in one fluid motion; it listed only his last name, Blackwall, followed by the title “Automotive Specialist” with a shop name and address in Skyhold just below. His hands were calloused when her fingers brushed against them as she took his card. “With water in your rad you can limp it to my shop – be sure to pull over if the temperature gauge starts letting it go over the halfway mark and let it cool down – and it’ll save you the towing price.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, feeling the flush continue to tickle her cheeks. 

“Call me Blackwall.” He held his hand out and she took it, flushing even more as she felt his work-hardened hand beneath hers. She had to look like a fucking beet right now. How embarrassing.

“I’m Nara. Thank you, for everything.”

Releasing her hand, he said, “Maybe you can repay me with coffee some time.” She was too shocked to form some sort of sensible response, so she simply watched him enter his car and listened to it roar to a start before taking off down the road, taking the turns at far too high of a speed for her comfort.

She patted the hood of her fucking car, silently thanking it for breaking down as she squeezed Blackwall’s business card.


	7. Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt on tumblr: "A kiss as a distraction for Nara and Blackwall."

“You’re wearing a hole through my floor.”

He was, he knew he was, but he couldn’t stop the frantic pacing of his feet.

It was the first time they had made love without him wearing the mask of Blackwall. It had been the first time they had both been laid bare and whole, with no blanket to cover up their pasts.

Yet deep in his stomach he remained unsettled, deeply perturbed by what he had done.

She had forgiven him, yes – she had been far more merciful than he ever deserved. His guilt had been enveloping him like a heavy current, drowning him, and by saving Mornay and revealing his true self, the lake had been emptied of the waters of guilt.

And yet he believed death would be his final retribution, drawing the poison that was his lie out of the Inquisition.

Out of the Inquisitor.

But no – she had forgiven him, against all odds, insisting she believed that he was a good man, regardless of his past, and still a worthy contribution to the Inquisition.

Tiring of his fretting from the bed she rose, the cascading moonlight bathing her bare skin. She wasn’t perfect, but she was beautiful in her imperfections; her broken nose, the heavy scar across her hip from a sword she had been too slow to dodge, the gnarled skin high on her left shoulder where a mage had set her on fire and it burned straight through her armour and melted her skin.

He loved her and each of her scars.

And yet.

She approached him, her flat feet pattering against the hardwood, her trust shown in her exposed skin.

She whispered, “Why are you fretting?”

His brows turned down into a furrow. How  _could_ he articulate why he was fretting? The secret was out, she had forgiven him, they had made love. Was this not the solution to his woes?

And yet…

It was that she  _had_ the heart to forgive him, a man who’s own heart was so black, that made him feel unworthy of her love.

And there it was – the crux of his worry. He was not worthy of her. The tiny woman who had accomplished so much, who had opened her heart to him, who had forgiven him. No act in this world could make him worthy of her, even in spite of the love in her eyes, the tenderness in her touch, the worry in the line between her brows, the trust in the wrinkle at the corner of her mouth.

She ought to know the truth after all. Perhaps if he ended it now, as he had tried and failed so many times to do in the past, she could have hope for a brighter future with a better man.

“I will never be worthy of you,” he whispered back.

Nara was never what he exactly considered predictable, yet he remained stunned as she threw her head back and laughed aloud. There was no vitriol in the laugh; she truly found his statement to be preposterous. “Why?” she asked. “Because you lied? Because you killed?” One of her brows raised, and she looked delightfully smug. “You think I’ve never lied and I’ve never killed? Please, Blackwall, I was in the fucking  _Carta_. If you didn’t kill someone before breakfast, it was an off day.”

“I lied to you…”

“You  _hid_ something from me.” She corrected. “As I’ve done to you, in the past. You were protecting yourself, as I’ve done.” She grabbed his arm with a firm archer’s grip. “Do you know one of the reasons I like you so damn much?”

The furrow on his brow lightened, just a touch. “The beard?”

“That too – very dwarfish, you know – but it’s because your life has been just as ugly as mine.” Her spare hand reached up to grab his other arm. “But now we’re both here, seeking redemption from the murky swamp that is our past, and that? That means more to me than anything you had once done.”

“But Nara–”

She interrupted his argument but reaching onto her toes while pulling him down to her by his arms, pressing lips still red from their lovemaking against his own. He sighed helplessly into the kiss, his woes thrown aside by the hurricane that was she. She pulled away from him, only by a minuscule amount so that their lips still brushed when she spoke. “We’ve both done ugly shit. But that ugly shit is what brought us here, and although it’s not something to be forgotten, it’s something to be  _forgiven_.”

A chuckle rose helplessly from him. “I love you, you know.”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “As I do you. Now, are you ready to throw me onto the bed and ravish me?”

That was an offer he could simply not refuse.


	8. The Rose and Its Thorns

Maker, Maker,  _Maker_. He was a fool. He was an  _idiot_. He was a man who was risking throwing away the atonement needed to rest his soul, just so that he could have a chance to have his songbird.

But oh, was the songbird ever so sweet. Not as lovely and proud as a swan, not as small and lithe as a hummingbird, not as intimidating as a crow. But the songs she sang were beautiful a tad mournful, reminiscent of days which could have either been much better or much worse.

He couldn’t say whether they had been better or worse than this. He had never asked. Like him, she was tight lipped about her past, and Maker, how he understood that.

Rough fingers caressed smooth wood, feeling the carved lines of the fabricated creature’s nose and mouth. It was something so simple, so foolish, yet to him so significant.

Perhaps she would laugh in his face and dispose of it. It was not an entirely obtuse possibility, yet it was one he swiftly dismissed; he knew little of the Herald, but he knew enough to believe that was something outside of her nature, regardless of its occasional brashness. His beard twitched as he smiled, thinking of her abrasive and impatient personality; she was not a woman to be taken advantage of, or a woman whose time was to be wasted. She was a rose, and he appreciated her thorns as much as her petals.

Nara, Maker Nara, how she had captured his bleak heart and brought light into his day when he thought his life would forever be destined to darkness.

If only he could tell her –

No. Not yet. For her, he will be Blackwall. He will be the Warden he promised her, not the disgrace he had once been.

And so he stuffed the trinket in his pocket and stood, his hips creaking from the humidity as he did. When he stepped out into the expanse of Haven the wind was crisp on his bare cheeks, turning them a raw red. Briskly he walked to the Chantry, nodding at Varric in passing, where Nara had been holed up all day by order of Josephine to “finish her bloody paperwork”.

The Chantry was a warm refuge, endless rows of candles bathing its heights in a pale orange glow. He knocked on the first door to the right, his stomach suddenly leaping into his throat when he heard Nara’s muted mutter of, “Come in.”

Andraste’s knickers, how he hoped she would never change. She looked so frustrated with her brows knit into a deep furrow, her lips turned down into a scowl aimed at the parchment before her. Yet the moment her gaze rose to spot him her spirits seemed to lift entirely, both the scowl and the furrow disappearing.

“Blackwall!” She sounded positively ecstatic to see him; the sound left him feeling both giddy and guilty. “Please, pull me away from this shit, even if it’s just for a moment.”

He rocked back onto his heels, his fingers laced behind his back. “That’s just what I was hoping to do, my lady.”

Eagerly, she leaned forward in the ornate chair, her short legs resting on a velvet poof in lieu of the ground they could not reach. At least she was able to be comfortable while she suffered through the paperwork. “What’s on your mind, Blackwall?”

A shiver racked through him whenever he heard her use that name again. “A little bird told me that today is your name day.”

Dramatically, she rolled her eyes and sighed. Under her breath she muttered, “Josephine.”

“I… hmm.” He had the sudden need to clear his throat. “Humans have a tradition of giving gifts and… I’m not sure if dwarves do the same thing, but I got you one.” Maker, he was nervous for such a small thing. “Made you one, actually. Warden’s pay doesn’t leave much room for spending.” She chuckled, and the warm sound brought some strength to him. His eyes met hers, and they were dancing with mirth. He asked, “You promise not to laugh?”

Leaning back with a wry smile, she said, “I can’t make such a promise, but I’ll do my best.”

“Maker knows why, but whenever we’re out in the Hinterlands and such, you refuse to kill those bloody ugly nugs, even to cook.” At this she did laugh, open and freely, throwing her head back to reveal her long neck. “And now whenever I see one, I think of you. So I made this.” From his pocket he pulled the wooden nug; it was a gift he had been tinkering away at for weeks in his limited off-hours, and although it still had a few imperfections he was pleased with the result. Watchful of her reaction he placed it in the desk before her; to his pleasure, both her eyes and lips widened in unbridled joy at the gift.

“Blackwall,” she whispered, her eyes never leaving the wooden nug, “You made this?”

His own lips twitched into a bright smile. “That I did. Used to do a little bit of woodcarving on the road to sell for supplies.”

As gentle as if it were made of glass she picked it up to admire each of the curves, her sharp eyes darting in every which way. “I…” Her voice became heavy with emotion. “I love it. Thank you.”

He bowed low, and gruffly responded, “You’re welcome, my lady. Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe you have work to do?”

Side to side her eyes darted, looking for Josephine. “I think I can shirk it off for another five minutes.” She gestured to the empty chair before her. “Want to tell me about how you learned how to wood carve?”

“That I would like.”

Oh, Maker, he was in trouble all right. But seeing Nara smile at him, her teeth a bit too large for her mouth, her nose broken in every direction, her casteless brand a glaring reminder of the past she would never be able to leave behind…

He didn’t mind throwing himself into the thorny rose bush. Not at all.


	9. Pinned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompts on tumblr: "stripping down" "pinning against the wall" and "having some 'private time' and the other walking in".
> 
> NSFW.

The whole trip back to Skyhold, the evening air crisp with the late fall breeze, Nara had been traveling with an unusual urgency, her bow bouncing against her lower back, her broad calves aching from propelling her heavy boots forward.

She could feel Blackwall’s gaze burning into her back. He was doing this to her, after all, whether he knew it or not. 

It was the way he held a sword; the grace with which he moved when swinging from the elbow, and the strength flowing through his upper body when he swung from the shoulder. It was his cry when he thrust with his shield, and the power flowing through his legs when he charged and knocked down an enemy larger than him. 

It left her... distracted.

Yet in spite of the shared heat when their eyes met, and the way he’d always lift his hand to touch her when they spoke before woefully dropping it to his side, he remained a door closed to her, a promise that was never fulfilled.

It was  _maddening_. 

Finally they reached Skyhold, and she nearly sprinted inside in eagerness. She heard Sera mutter to Blackwall something about her “knickers being in a twist”, but she knew her knickers were having bigger problems at the moment.

 

Upon her entry in the War Room, paperwork was thrust at her in droves: reports from Leliana’s scouts, new troop formations Cullen needed to immediately discuss with her, a proposition from a noble that Josephine insisted was of the utmost importance --

“Wait!” Nara pinched the bridge of her nose, avoiding the piercing gazes of her advisers. “I just returned from the Fallow Mire. I haven’t bathed in a week and I smell of swamp. My armour is biting into every bare inch of my skin, and I haven’t slept in anything other than hay and thin blankets for two weeks. Ancestors,  _please_ , can this wait until morning?”

She had been snappier than she should have been, she knew, but her impatience was outweighing her tact. 

“Yes, Inquisitor.” “Of course, Inquisitor.” “My apologies, Inquisitor. We’ll continue this discussion at sunrise.”

They left as a unit, remaining quiet; as the door was closing behind them, she could hear their frantic hushed whispers.

Guilt reared its ugly head but she pushed it away swiftly. Her position as the Inquisitor was demanding, and she deserved a moment alone. She followed the advisers out but turned the opposite direction to her quarters. 

A cool bath was awaiting her as she ascended the stairs, and she didn’t bother requesting for a mage to warm it. She stripped her armour and underarmour off, lazily discarding them in a corner, and slipped into the cool water, exhaling contently as it engulfed her.

She scrubbed away all the dirt, grime, blood and sweat until her skin was rubbed raw. 

As she cleaned, she thought of Blackwall; his piercing gaze, his calloused hands, his full lips. She dreamed of him in the tub with her, cleaning her back, his hands slipping between her legs, teasing her open, slipping inside...

She dried herself off and lay down in her bed, undressed, sighing as the down pillows sagged under her weight. She was exhausted but restless, her thoughts never leaving Blackwall as she followed her routine. 

Finally, a moment to herself. Finally, she could rid herself of the tension building up in her core.

Closing her eyes she traced a line up her thighs with light fingertips, thinking of Blackwall’s calloused fingers in place of her own. She thought of him sitting behind her, his erection pressing into her back, his beard tickling her shoulder as he pressed kisses along her neck. One hand would be roaming her body, squeezing her breasts, while the other slipped inside her, pressing against--

A throat cleared beside her.

“Shit of the Ancestors!” She scrambled to cover herself up with her blankets, her face turning as red as a chili pepper. “Didn’t I lock the fucking door, and for that matter, have you--”

Her tirade was halted when she finally turned to the intruder, only to realize that it was Blackwall.

_...Shit._

“Err...” Her cheeks were on fire, and she was flushing even redder. “Hello.”

His expression was filled with even more fire than her cheeks, compounded with a hunger, a  _desire_ , she had never seen before.

No words were exchanged. A predator approaching its prey, Blackwall stalked towards her, each step slow and deliberate, his eyes -- sending her flashes of apprehension and remorse behind the desire -- never leaving hers.

One hand rested on her cheek. He opened his mouth, yet no words came out. She was struck silent as she watched him wage a war within himself. Regardless of her wants, of the heat pooling between her legs at the act so simple as a press of fingers against her lips, she would not sway him. She could never live with herself if she did.

Yet she did not need to. He lowered himself to her and pressed his lips against hers, his beard tickling her chin, his hands desperately grasping her shoulders like he was a drowning man and she his raft. He pulled away, just an inch, just enough to breathe “Maker” before he lowered himself again, his lips even more hungry, his hands more exploratory. Ever part of him was fire, his lips setting hers alight, his hands scalding the flesh they touched. Resting her hands against his chest -- and how unyielding it was, firmed by never ending commitment and training -- she pushed him away, just enough to run her hands along the low neck of his cream shirt. Curious hands wandered along his chest and his stomach before stripping away his shirt. She felt that she was not only stripping away his clothes but a layer of him, of the wall he had so finely crafted, finally affording her a glimpse of his raw self. Fine hairs were revealed as she pulled up, up, some grey and some black, and she knew that never before had she wanted anything more in her life.

It was her turn to lean up to meet his lips, the sheet slipping away from her breasts, the cool air brushing against her nipples. She whispered his name against his lips and he groaned, her hands searching over every part of him, committing him to memory.

Lips chapped from heated kisses he pulled away, his gaze locking with hers. 

“Nara.” His voice trembled. “I...”

He stood and pulled at the ties to his drawers, letting them fall to the floor. His hands trembled, too, as he pulled away the sheets and lowered himself on top of her. She, on the other hand, felt steady, strong, ready; she had wanted this for so  _long_.

His lips made a hot trail down her cheek, jaw, neck, chest, her stomach rising as she gasped. His hands tethered onto her, holding tight, refusing to let go. Travelling lower he came to the sweet spot between her legs and he breathed her in.

“You are beautiful.” His eyes met hers as he said it, words that had so rarely been directed at her. To punctuate his statement he ran his tongue along her slit, a strained “ah!” escaping her lips. 

With tongue and fingers he devoured her, moaning with his ministrations, a lover more hungry than she had ever had before. When she came with a cry he lapped up her juices and kissed up her electrified skin, her legs still wobbling even as he pressed his lips to hers.

“Blackwall, I...” she giggled until her eyes met his, but when they did, the pure  _need_ in them left her heart pounding. Gripping her hips he lifted her from the bed, pinning her back against the wall beside the bed. Each kiss was bordering on desperation as she wrapped her legs around his hips, his cock pressing to her entry.

“Please.” It was not a request but a command.

“Yes, my lady.” With a swift swing of his lips he was inside of her, stretching her walls, filling her completely, a shot of adrenaline straight to her core. He growled as he thrust in and out again, clamping down on her neck with his teeth when she threw her head back in pleasure.

Together they rocked, both insatiable for the other, sharing the longing for this moment. Months of looks filled with both heat and curiosity, brushes of skin against skin, denial of feelings, all of it boiled down to this moment together, his cock thrusting into her harder and harder, his fingertips digging into her skin, his face burying into her chest. 

“My... my lady... Nara...” It was now her fingertips that dug into his skin, the hard flesh at his shoulders rippling beneath her touch as he thrust harder and harder, pulling the electricity from her core to her every limb, an explosion within her so wonderful, so fulfilling, that she cried out his name, clamping her legs around his hips and her walls around his cock. He continued, more rapidly, riding her through her explosions until he tensed every muscle to release his own with a series of low moans. 

Against the wall he held her as they both gasped for breath, melting into a puddle of lingering sensations. She couldn’t help herself any longer; Nara began to giggle until it caught onto Blackwall, who laughed his low rumble with her. 

“Finally,” she muttered, still giggling as she pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.

He pulled away to gaze into her eyes again, smiling. “You are wonderful,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose.

“So are you.”

He lowered her onto the bed, leaving a vacancy inside of her when he pulled out to wipe them both with her bath towel. 

She asked, “We’ll do this again, won’t we?”

“Definitely.”

She couldn’t help but notice that his eyes didn’t meet hers when he responded.


	10. On the Edge of Consciousness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt "On the edge of consciousness" over on tumblr.

He is fighting wave upon wave of Darkspawn, battered shield in place and bloodied sword at the ready. Sweat falls from his brow in droves and his lungs burn as he gasps for breath.

He is lying on a bale of straw, sharp ends sticking into the soft flesh on his back, a small, warm body curled into his side. 

A Hurlock approaches him, eyes dark and wild, banging its rusted sword against its heavy shield. The battle cry it emits is meant to strike fear but instead brings him courage. Sidestepping to avoid the clumsy blow of the Hurlock, he spins behind it and lobs its head off in one powerful swing of his sword; black blood squirts from the neck before the body collapses, twitching on the ground one last time before falling still.

The warm body beside him stirs and lets out the softest of sighs, sleep setting aside the burdens of her task. A small hand, calloused by bow, rests splayed on his stomach, tracing small circles in the graying hair.

An ogre rounds the corner, crying out in fury and madness. A man is in its hand. The beast is so powerful it throws the man around like a ragdoll, lifting him overhead before throwing him onto the floor at Blackwall’s feet with a roar. With his boot Blackwall turns the man over, and his bowels turn to water; the man is Vincent Callier. 

He gasps and clenches his hands, eyes flying open to be assaulted by morning sunlight. The figure beside him lets out a small squeak; he has awoken her, his Herald, his Inquisitor, his lady, his Nara. The breath recovered from abruptly waking is stolen again by her beauty.

“Good morning,” she mutters, rubbing at her eyes with pudgy knuckles. She sits up in their makeshift bed; she is still undressed from the night before, and the light falls on her soft, exposed flesh. “Sleep well?”

“Not bad,” he replies through a voice thick with sleep. “And you?” He leans over to press a kiss to her ribs; the skin is pliable beneath his lips, and she lets out a breath of a laugh.

“Like a stone. What did you dream of?”

She always asks him what he dreams of. Perhaps it is because she cannot travel to the Fade herself, and wishes to live through his experiences. Or perhaps she believes that each dream will reveal more about him. Still, he does not lie: their relationship has little enough truth as it is. 

“Fighting Darkspawn.” He sits up as well, stretching his hands overhead; she presses kisses on his stomach, his shoulder, his cheek. Each kiss soothes him, fading the image of the fallen Vincent Callier and the shame he always carries with him.

“You’re always fighting Darkspawn in your dreams,” she grumbles. “You should have more dreams of dwarven ladies and less of Darkspawn.”

He meets her brown eyes, and they’re glittering with mirth. “All day I dream of one dwarven lady.” He traces a line down her side, from shoulder to hip, squeezing the ample flesh there. “It’s not my fault Darkspawn invade my sleep.”

She leans forward so he can feel her breath on his lips, never breaking his gaze. “Perhaps this dwarf needs to give you some material for your dreams, hmm?” Her fingers plunge into his hair and hungrily her lips meet his, tasting, biting.

He pulls away, only long enough to mutter, “It can’t hurt to try.”

He rolls on top of her, filling his memories with her body and her laugh, wishing away the memories of the slaughter of the Calliers. 


	11. Hang Me

It was a perfect day. The sun was high in a crystal clear sky and the air smelled overwhelmingly sweet from the wildflowers she lay in (or were they weeds? Someone more knowledgeable on gardening than she – perhaps Solas or Vivienne – would know). A gentle breeze brushed the sweetgrass against cheeks soaked from tears. 

The weather – and its perfection – was a mockery of her stormy mood. She had hoped that the fresh, crisp air would soothe her, but it only angered her that the world could move on so easily while she waded in tragedy and confusion. 

The wind carried a tentative voice to her ears, one she wasn’t sure she was ready to face quite yet. “My lady.”

She covered her eyes with her hand and sighed. “Blackwall.” Knowing that the name was a facade made it burn on her tongue. Did she call him Thom, now? Blackwall had become so familiar that it felt more real to her than Thom ever did. 

“May I join you?” he asked, his voice filled with hesitation.

A deep sigh escaped her dry lips. “I’d really prefer if you didn’t.”

“Right.” His words sounded clipped, tight. “I’ll take my leave, then. I am sorry for disturbing you.”

His tone, and the desperation it carried, brought pause to her anger. “Wait.”

“Yes?” On that singular question, his voice was filled with so much damn hope it made her heart ache.

“I’ve forgiven you for this debacle, but I’m still angry with you.”

“As you should be.”

She dug the heels of her palms into her eyes until a kaleidoscope of colours appeared. “Stop it,” she snapped. Every muscle in her body was tense like a coiled spring. “Just… stop.”

“Stop what, my lady?” She heard the brush of his slow footsteps in the grass, approaching her.

“That…” She waved an arm in the air while she searched for a suitable word, “Fucking self-loathing you’re doing.”

Blackwall remained silent, finding no response to that. She knew him well enough to know what he was thinking, though: of _course_ he hated himself, look at what he had _done_ , he would _always_ hate himself.

“You have a second chance now,” she whispered. “The Inquisition was my second chance, and now it’s yours, too.”

“I can’t…” he audibly swallowed, “Just forget. What I’ve done.”

Finally she opened her eyes, turning to face him. To her great surprise, tears were leaking from his gentle eyes into his unkempt beard. To his knees he fell, taking his face in his hands. “Every time I close my eyes, I imagine his children, I imagine my men taking their lives.”

She reached her hand out to pat his knee. “And every time I close my eyes, I see those who fell at Haven because of my failure. I hear the cries of the innocent that I killed while I was in the Carta.” The hand that rested on his knee gripped it. “They were mistakes, but I forgave myself, because torturing myself over what I can’t change fixes nothing. The law forgave you. _I_ forgave you. In time, the Inquisition will forgive you, too. But if you have any desire for a future – including one with me – you need to forgive _yourself_.”

Using his knee, Nara pushed herself onto her feet, brushing away the grass that clung to her clothing. “I thought that I was the one who needed fresh air, but I think you do. Find me at Skyhold when you’re ready, and not before.”

Hoisting her bow over her shoulder, she left the man that she loved in her wake. He had lied, but so had she; he had killed, but so had she; he had evaded the law, but so had she. Yet she had accepted her faults, and he had not. They were meant for each other, Nara and Blackwall, just two criminals trying to save Thedas; but if Blackwall did not accept now what he had done in the past, he would soon be too far out of her grasp to save. 

When she glanced over her shoulder at him, he was still in his knees with his head clutched in his hands, grass and wildflowers dancing at his feet. 


End file.
